


Between Despair and Ecstasy

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Chess, I love this musical, Nobody's on Nobodies side is the greatest song ever, Yuletide 2018, happy yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: Florence discovers chess.





	Between Despair and Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueorangecrush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueorangecrush/gifts).



> There are many different versions of Chess, most notably the Original UK version and the Original US version. In 2018 another version was put on at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC, with an updated book which went back to how many things were in the UK version. This fic is based on the original UK version and the 2018 Kennedy Center version. The only thing taken from the original US version is the name of Florence’s father.

**Budapest 1954**

_ Budapest is rising _

The first time Florence every saw a chess board she was barely 5 years old. The hallway was dark, the carpet dusty and the curtains drawn tight. Young Florence was not allowed in this part of the house. When they came to visit the Esterházy family she was supposed to stay in the sitting room or in the kitchens. 

She had been asleep when they arrived at the house, and when she woke she was alone in the sitting room. Normally, a visit to the Esterházy house came with warning from her mother and papa to be on her best behavior, to be still and quiet. 

This time there had been no such warning. She had gone to bed in her own home, and woke up here, in this strange room. It took her a moment to recognize it, to realize she had been there before. But she had never been left alone like this, without warning. 

So Florence decided to walk around and explore. 

Her country was on the brink of revolution, there was fighting in the streets. Danger seemed to lurk around every corner. Even as a small child she could tell things were on the edge, teetering, a small push away from falling apart. Yet Florence was curious. 

She left the sitting room wandered into the hall. In the distance she could hear the low voice of her papa speaking. Following the low sound of his voice, she found herself in the dark hallway. 

In all her times in the house, she had never been in this area before. It looked almost unused, like maybe no one else was ever in the area either. Florence ran her hand along the wall, fingers lightly tracing over the wall paper. 

She paused at the door where her papa’s voice was coming from. The door was cracked open, just slightly, a sliver of light coming through into the gloomy hallway. Glancing through the opening, Florence saw an ornate table, heavy with detailed carved legs. On the top of it lay a board, black and white squares alternating. 

There were pieces on it, delicately made and beautiful, like Florence had never seen before. Half were dark and the other half light, mirror images of each other. And at either side of the table sat a man. 

Her papa and Mr. Esterházy. They were taking turns, moving the pieces, while they spoke in low and urgent voices. 

Florence leaned forward, to get a better look at what was going on. But the door moved under her hand, and a terrible squeaking sound came out. Against the quiet hallway, the murmuring of the men, the sound sounded cutting and harsh. 

Both men looked up, startled. Her papa spotted her right away, their eyes meeting. He stood right away, apologizing over his shoulder to Mr. Esterházy as he came forward and lifted her up, and promising to come right back. 

“What were you doing,  _ kedvesem _ ?” Her papa asked. His voice was not angry, just firm. 

Florence ignored her papa’s question to ask her own. “What was that toy you were playing with?”

Her papa sighed deeply. “It was a game. Chess.”

“Did you win?” She asked. Her papa was very good at games. In their house, he almost always beat her and her mother. 

He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “No,  _ kedvesem,  _ for me, this game was not about winning. Mr. Esterházy is very skilled, he is a great man. Sometimes just being near someone so great is enough.”

He had walked her back into the sitting room as he spoke. He placed her down on the couch she had been on when she woke. 

“Okay, Papa,” she said, not fully understanding, but seeing the serious look on her papa’s face. 

“Now, stay here,” he said. “I still need to speak with Mr. Esterházy. Soon I will be done, and we can go home.” 

He gave her a comforting grin, and Florence nodded. 

   


**Budapest 1956**

_ Budapest is fighting _

For Florence’s seventh birthday, her Papa gave her a chess board and began to teach her the game. Their flat was small, and there was not much money for games and toys. But the proud look on his face when he had given it to her had made her heart swell. 

She could tell this was important to him. 

It was important to her too. 

Papa was so busy these days. Always going to meetings, speaking in low voices with other men in their apartment block. 

That he was taking time to spend with her, to teach her, made Florence feel special. 

Something was going on with her parents and their friends, she could tell. Her mother constantly seemed worried, wringing her hands and looking out the window in fear. 

Lessons with her papa were the only time she had the uninterrupted attention of one of her parents. The only time they did not seem to be talking about politics or the state of Hungary. It was the only time the sparsely populated cabinets in the kitchen, and the holes in her shoes, did not seem to matter at all. 

“You are picking it up very quickly,  _ kedvesem, _ ” her papa told her. “Such a smart daughter I have.”

“You have a skill at Chess,” he told her. “You are already better than me, and we have only been playing for a few months.”

“You could be great at Chess,” he told her. “A world class player.”

She glowed under his praise, reveling in it. 

Then her city was on fire, and everything changed. 

Budapest burned. 

Her parents told her to stay inside, to keep the curtains drawn. Her father was out at all hours. When he came back there was always dirt on his face, circles under his eyes, and a deep frown set into his mouth. 

Then he didn’t come back, for a day. For two days. 

When he did return there was a wild look in his eyes. He knelt in front of Florence, his soot covered hands on her shoulders, gripping her like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning. 

“We failed,” he said. “My colleagues and I, we wanted a better world, a better Budapest. I fought for you. But we are beaten.”

“Papa?” Florence asked, her voice thin and scared, not understanding. 

“They are coming for us all now, coming for me,” Papa said, glancing up over her shoulder at her mother. “You must not fight them anymore.”

“What are you talking about, Papa?” Florence asked. 

Her mother did not echo the question, she knew. Papa shook his head sadly. “There is no time,  _ kedvesem _ .”

A heavy knock came at the door just then, and whoever was on the other side was shouting. “OPEN UP,” they yelled. 

Papa closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “I thought I would have more time,” he said, almost under his breath. Then he met Florence’s eyes again. “Remember,  _ kedvesem,  _ to be great.” 

Then he kissed the top of her head, and stood up. He leaned over her and kissed her mother briefly. “Take care,” he said, then he turned and opened the door. 

There were two men there, in full military uniforms. “Gregor Vassy!” 

“Yes,” her Papa said, nodding and stepping forward. 

That seemed to be all they were waiting for, they reached forward, each grabbing once of his arms, and forcing them behind his body. “You are under arrest,” said the taller of the soldiers. “You are coming with us.”

“What is my crime,” her father cried out, struggling in their grip. 

“Papa!” Florence called out, and tried to lunge toward her father. 

But her mother reached out and wrapped an arm around Florence’s shoulder, keeping her back. “Shhhhh,” her mother said. 

And then, as suddenly as the soldiers had arrived, they were gone. Her papa was gone with them. They dragged her papa off, out of the flat, away from her and her mother. 

   


**New York 1966**

_ Budapest is fallen _

Florence sat at the cardboard chess board in the rec center, waiting for her next opponent. The game in front of her barely resembled the ornate wood table with the chess board built into it that she had first seen when she was five. And it barely looked like the version her father scrimped and saved for, and gave her for her birthday all those years ago. 

But that gift had been left behind when Florence left Budapest. Running from Hungary had meant leaving everything behind, her whole life, everything she had. 

That was why she kept playing chess. Ten years in America and she still did not feel like she totally fit in. This did not feel like a true home. The only time she truly felt like herself was when she was playing. 

Chess brought her close to her father, to her childhood, to the idea of home. 

A boy sat down in the seat across from her, with a heavy thud. Not a boy, maybe, a teen, like her. Yet, there was something old about his face, around his eyes. They looked haunted, tired. And  there was something familiar about him. 

“Let’s play,” he said, starting to set the pieces into their place on the board. 

“Sure,” Florence said, watching his hands move quickly. She was trying to place him. The sureness of his movements, the confidence in his posture, it all reminded her of something. 

They started to play. 

It immediately became clear to Florence that this guy was better than her. She was good. But he was better. He seemed to know each move she was going to make before she figured it out herself. 

Florence was often the best chess player in the room, but not this time. Much to her surprise, she did not mind. It was bracing. Watching this guy play was like watching art being made. Each move was like the stroke of a brush. She got the impression she was in the presence of something bigger than herself. 

She was good. But he was great. 

A thrill went up Florence’s spin. 

Maybe that was what seemed familiar about him, the look on his face, the way he concentrated. It reminded her of the man her father used to play chess with. It reminded her of the way she used to feel when she played chess with her father, like chess was the whole world and she was lucky to be immersed in it. 

“That was amazing,” she said, when he had played his checkmate. Being near greatness- it was just like her father said. She finally understood what he had been trying to tell her when she was a child. 

“You held your own,” the guy said, giving her a small smirk. 

“I’m Florence,” she said, reaching over the table to offer him her hand. “And I would love to play you again.”

The guy took her hand loosely, “Freddie,” he said. “And yeah, that sounds cool.”

Suddenly, she realized where she recognized him from. He was the kid who had been the US champion was he was just eleven. She had seen his picture in the paper, which the rec center had pinned to the wall. 

A champion, and yet she had held her own against him. 

Florence smiled, a strange feeling of contentment in the pit of her stomach. “Good to meet you Freddie, and good game.”


End file.
